Poisoned by Gilt Page 5

  sight of the blue uniform. A police officer entered the studio, followed by a second officer.

  "Morning," the first man said with a solemn nod. "I'm

  Officer Dantley. This is Officer Riggs."

  Steve rose and shook their hands. "Steve Sullivan.

  And this is my partner, Erin Gilbert." His features were

  drawn, and I knew he had every bit as bad a feeling about

  this visit as I did.

  Officer Riggs nodded at me. "We met last year, Ms.

  Gilbert."

  "That's right. At the benefit." I had a good friend,

  Linda Delgardio, who was on the Crestview police force.

  "We've been told you both were in a class at CU last

  night taught by Richard Thayers. True?"

  "Yes," Steve managed, his voice uncharacteristically

  low. "He was a mentor of mine. He taught some of my

  classes at the Art Institute of Colorado when he was living

  in Denver."

  "We've got some bad news for you," the second officer

  said. "Richard Thayers died early this morning."

  c h a p t e r 4

  Oh, no," I moaned. Steve just gaped at the officers.

  "He was poisoned," Officer Dantley said. "At least according to the preliminary tox screens. He drank something that he apparently didn't realize was extremely

  poisonous."

  The color drained from Steve's face. I rounded my

  desk and grabbed his arm. He appeared to be too

  shocked to say anything. I resisted the urge to embrace

  him and instead asked the policemen, "You mean the

  gold paint from last night's class?"

  P o i s o n e d b y G i l t 43

  "That's what it appears to be," Dantley replied. "The

  autopsy won't be ready for another day or two."

  "According to our information," Riggs interjected,

  "he's done that drinking-paint act more than once. This

  time it caught up with him."

  "That's what a former client of mine in his class said

  last night," I muttered.

  "Margot Troy?" Officer Riggs asked.

  I nodded.

  "Professor Thayers had her name circled on his class

  roster," Riggs explained. "We spoke with her earlier this

  morning. She told us about your being there."

  Sullivan pulled away from my grasp and leaned back

  onto his desk, gripping the edge so firmly that his knuckles turned white. I wished that the policemen could give

  him a minute or two to collect himself.

  "Mr. Thayers was obviously feeling ill after drinking

  the paint yesterday," I said. "Did he get himself to a doctor?"

  Riggs shook his head. "That's where we think he was

  heading last night. But he pulled over. Apparently too

  sick to keep driving. Unfortunately, he pulled into a

  small side street. Nobody saw him there. Or if they did,

  they didn't realize he was in distress."

  "He died in his car?" I asked.

  " 'Bout halfway between the campus and the hospital," he answered with a grim nod. "A jogger found him

  in the early hours of the morning."

  "He was murdered," Steve insisted. "Someone must

  have switched labels on the can . . . fooled him into thinking it was his own nontoxic paint, when he was actually

  drinking a toxic product from some other manufacturer.

  That's the only reasonable explanation."

  44 L e s l i e C a i n e

  "We're investigating that possibility, Mr. Sullivan,"

  Dantley said sternly. "Although it could also have been a

  careless accident, made in the production line. Or

  maybe a deliberate act on his own part."

  "Suicide, you mean? No way!" Sullivan fired back.

  "Mr. Thayers had a half dozen of his environmentally

  friendly products in his book bag," Officer Riggs explained, "which he apparently brought to class with him.

  First thing the lab did was test all six cans, and they all

  had exactly what the label said. 'Cept the gold paint."

  "He always drinks that one product," Sullivan said.

  "It's the most impressive, because it's metallic. Yet he says

  it also thins out with water the best."

  There was a pause as both policemen peered at Steve.

  "So . . . you knew he added water," Officer Dantley stated.

  "Did you share that information with anyone else?"

  "No. Not counting Erin. And I only heard about it after the fact. When Richard told me."

  "For this to have been murder, the killer had to be real

  familiar with Mr. Thayers's routines," Riggs said.

  "We need to interview you two separately," Dantley

  said, giving his partner a piercing glare. He had a more

  authoritative manner than Riggs, which led me to believe he was his superior officer. "Miss Gilbert, would

  you mind coming with me?"

  "Uh, no, that's fine." I cast a longing glance at

  Sullivan, hating to leave him reeling from the news, as I

  followed the policeman through the inner door that led

  to the lobby and stairs.

  The main entrance to our three-story office building

  had a rarely used alcove--rarely used because it was

  poorly lit, stark, and unappealing. Dantley and I took

  seats on the marble slab of a bench as I recounted for him

  P o i s o n e d b y G i l t 45

  the short history of my dealings with Richard Thayers.

  That led to a lengthy discussion about what little I knew

  of Richard's relationship with Burke Stratton.

  Eventually, we returned to the matter of who could

  have been highly familiar with Richard's lesson plans.

  "Margot Troy told me she'd taken the class two other

  times," I said. "I don't know if anyone else in the class was

  a repeat."

  He made a notation in his pad. "Anyone in the class

  strike you as acting suspicious?"

  "A local furniture maker named Matthew Hayes was

  heckling Thayers, as I'm sure Margot already told you."

  "Yeah. She did." Dantley held my gaze for an uncomfortably long time. "She also said the two of you came in

  together last night."

  I was surprised and a little offended. How had Margot

  even noticed our entrance directly behind her? And why

  had she reported such trivia to the police so quickly? "We

  weren't together. He held the door for me. We just happened to arrive at the same time. That's all."

  "So you didn't talk to him, other than maybe to thank

  him for getting the door?"

  "Not exactly, no." My seat on the marble bench felt intolerably uncomfortable, so I tried to reposition myself,

  then noticed Dantley raise an eyebrow and scribble

  something in his pad. "I chatted with him after class. I

  was curious about the statements he'd made to Richard."

  "Can you recall the exact conversation?"

  I took a calming breath and tried to quell the feeling

  that I was being investigated as a murder suspect. Nobody

  was pointing a finger at me. Officer Dantley was merely

  being thorough. Margot, too, must have felt this anxious

  during her sudden early-morning police interrogation. I re-46 L e s l i e C a i n e

  peated what Matthew and I had said to each other last

  night as best I could, omitting Sullivan's and my brief quarrel in Matthew's presence. Afterward, Dantley flipped

  back through his notes.

  "What's your personal take on Burke Stratto
n?"

  "I'm not sure what you mean by 'personal take.' He's

  been our client at Sullivan and Gilbert Designs for

  around six months. He's trying to win the Earth Love

  green home contest. He's a nice guy. Thanks to this contest, he's on the verge of getting major recognition for his

  house, and we're helping him."

  "Who's 'we'?"

  "Steve Sullivan and myself."

  "Got any idea what caused the rift between Thayers

  and Stratton?"

  "All I know is that Burke said he'd hired Richard four

  years ago and fired him because he felt his work was

  shoddy."

  "Had to have been pretty bad, right? Their parting of

  the ways, I mean. You said that Thayers warned you he

  might damage your professional lives."

  "Yes."

  He studied my features, waiting, but I had nothing to

  add.

  "Your partner might be able to fill us in a little better."

  Dantley shut his notepad and tucked it into a jacket

  pocket. "Wait here, please." He returned to my office,

  and I promptly rose. No way would I stay seated on this

  uncomfortable bench like a disobedient child waiting for

  the principal's punishment; I wanted to know what was

  happening in my own office.

  After a minute or two, both officers emerged, and

  P o i s o n e d b y G i l t 47

  Riggs said, "Thank you, Ms. Gilbert. Please call the station house if you think of anything important you'd like

  to add. We'll be in touch."

  Dantley tipped his cap, and they left.

  I rushed back into my office, deeply concerned about

  Steve. He was staring at the drawing I'd been working on

  for Burke. To my dismay, he tore the drawing off my easel

  and crumpled it.

  "Steve? Do you want to talk about it?"

  "It?" he snapped.

  "About Richard." I couldn't keep my discouragement

  from my voice. Was this how it was always going to be between us? One door opens a crack only to have another one

  slam shut in my face? My rose-shaped grape was still sitting in its little cup on the corner of my desk. It seemed to

  be shriveling before my very eyes.

  "No. Talking won't help. Only getting the bastard who

  did this to him will. Seeing him get locked up with the

  key thrown away. That's all I care about at this point."

  "So when you crumpled Burke's plans for the solarium just now . . . you think he did it?"

  "Yeah, actually, I do. I think he hated Richard. I think

  it was the last straw for Burke when he found out Richard

  was cutting him out of the competition. And I think he

  killed him."

  "Burke wasn't there last night. And the two of them

  have been estranged since before Richard started teaching that class. So, even if he had learned somehow about

  Richard's drinking his products, he couldn't have realized that it was always gold paint."

  "You don't know that." His hazel eyes were once again

  burning with anger. I had to turn away. I slunk toward my

  desk. Some defeatist part of my brain whined that this

  48 L e s l i e C a i n e

  thing between Sullivan and me was just too hard. Not

  meant to be. Not worth it. "They were probably friendly

  at one time," he said.

  "True."

  "This is my fault," he muttered, staring at the red and

  black oil painting against the exposed brick wall behind

  his desk.

  "No, it isn't!" I leaned forward on my desk. "Steve.

  Please. Don't bludgeon yourself like this!"

  "I should have insisted on taking him to the hospital.

  I knew something was wrong." His fists were clenched.

  He tossed the mangled floor plan into the steel trash

  can.

  "But he told you he was feeling better. And that appeared to be the truth."

  "I should've seen through that. My god, the man

  drank poisonous paint right in front of me! And I let him

  walk out and try to make his own way to the hospital. All

  because I was so wrapped up in you and that Matthew

  Hayes joker."

  "Oh, Steve! You can't seriously be blaming yourself for

  not reading Richard's mind, can you?"

  He was grinding his teeth, avoiding my eyes. "I know

  in my gut that Burke's guilty."

  "But . . . Burke's a successful M.D. He's well respected

  in the community. All this green design stuff he does is

  just a sideline for him. He doesn't need the winnings.

  And he's already won community service awards, so he's

  got whatever respect and status he could want."

  He sighed. "Maybe that was the problem, Erin." He

  was finally calming down a little, thank goodness.

  "Maybe he couldn't stand to lose his lofty status. His rep-P o i s o n e d b y G i l t 49

  utation was going to get damaged, thanks to Richard.

  He's got his pride on the line."

  "So you think he decided to murder the contest judge?

  Seriously?"

  "Image is everything for some people. He loses his

  self-image, he's dead. He killed to protect it."

  "I guess there have been worse reasons to take someone's life. But . . . he might be innocent." My heart ached

  for poor Steve. I felt strongly that he was being much too

  hasty to condemn Burke, but at the moment, he needed

  my support, not my critique. "We have to honor our contract with Burke, but I think it's best if I handle all our interactions myself, for the time being," I suggested gently.

  "Okay?"

  Sullivan sighed again, his shoulders sagging. "Why

  the hell didn't I insist on taking Richard to a doctor?

  What was I thinking?"

  He'd already answered that question. He'd been thinking that I was flirting with Matthew Hayes. "I know this is

  harsh, but the fact is, Richard was the only person who

  could have known for sure how sick he was feeling. His

  pride got in the way of asking for help, even when his life

  depended on it."

  Steve gave me an anguished gaze. "I've got to get out

  of here for a while. Clear my head." He grabbed his coat

  and headed out the door without a backward glance.

  I sank miserably into my chair. Why had I argued with

  him? Just once, couldn't I have said what I'd really been

  feeling? Thrown my arms around him and told him how

  much I cared?

  Even as I asked myself those questions, an answer niggled at me. I'd been afraid to test his reaction. It would

  have been unbearably painful for me if Sullivan had

  50 L e s l i e C a i n e

  pushed me away and blamed me for distracting him from

  Richard's plight last night.

  A minute or two later, the door opened, and I whirled

  around, hoping Steve had already returned. Instead it

  was Burke Stratton. I remembered we had an appointment this morning and as usual, he was right on time.

  His face looked ashen, though his complexion was always quite pale. He was a bookish man in his early forties

  with Nordic coloring--blond with gentle blue eyes behind his thick wire-framed oval lenses.

  With no preamble and without removing his parka,

  Burke asked, "Did you hear what happened to Richard

  Thayers?" He winced immediately and held up a palm.

  "Never mind. You must have." He dropped into
the

  Sheraton chair in front of my desk. "I bumped into Steve

  just now. He wouldn't talk to me. He barely even looked

  at me."

  "He's upset."

  "The two of them were friends?"

  "Yes. Thayers used to be his favorite professor, and

  they'd kept in touch over the years." I peered at him,

  thinking how ironic it would have been if Richard had

  made it to the emergency room last night, and if Burke--

  his arch enemy--had been there. "How did you hear

  about his death so quickly? Were you at the hospital

  when they found him?"

  He shook his head. "I phoned Earth Love first thing

  this morning, trying to get a handle on when they're going to hold my hearing. The receptionist was in tears."

  "I wonder how they found out."

  "The police. Richard probably had a business card in

  P o i s o n e d b y G i l t 51

  his wallet." He searched my eyes. "Is this going to be a

  problem?"

  "Pardon?"

  "Steve Sullivan. And his friendship with Richard

  Thayers. The way he looked at me . . . the glare on his

  face . . . it was as if he thought I had killed the guy."

  "I'm sure that's not true," I lied. "He glares all the time

  when he's thinking. It's one of his standard facial expressions."

  Burke stared at the maple flooring by his feet. "If

  somebody actually murdered Richard, it wasn't me, Erin.

  I'm a doctor, for God's sake. I save lives. Or at least, I used

  to, and will again. I've been doing medical research the

  past few years."

  "You have? I thought you worked at the hospital."

  "I do. But in the lab. I used to be a pediatrician, but

  when my son died, I needed to take a break from patient

  care."

  "Your son died? Oh, how horrible! I'm so sorry to hear

  that!"

  He nodded. "Almost four years ago. Before I moved

  here from Denver. Childhood leukemia. I thought I'd

  mentioned that when you were looking at the pictures in

  my house."

  "No. You'd just said it was your ex-wife and your son. I

  assumed your wife had full custody." It had been a reasonable conclusion; I'd seen for myself already that he

  had no boy's bedroom or toys in his home, just a Raggedy

  Andy doll in the corner of the master bedroom.

  "I wish that was all there was to it. Then Caleb would

  still be alive." He was battling such sorrow that my heart

  ached for the poor man. "But in any case, Erin, I swear. I

  52 L e s l i e C a i n e